Careful and judicious fathers cautioned their sons against associating with them; but that did not seem to trouble these young fellows, who kept on enjoying themselves in their own way, and paying no heed to what others might say or think of them.
They were engaged in earnest conversation, and so deeply engrossed were they in the subject under discussion, whatever it was, that they did not hear the sound of George’s approaching footsteps until he had come quite near to them.
“I tell you, boys,” he heard one of them say, “that will be a ten-strike, and we can start on our western trip as soon as we please. You know that old Stebbins will not trust any of the banks, and consequently he must have the money in his house.”
“But, of course, he keeps it stowed away in some snug hiding-place,” said one of his companions, “and we don’t know where that is. What good will it do to break into the house if we can’t find the money after we—”
The boy finished the sentence by uttering a cry of alarm and springing to his feet.
His two companions, who were no less alarmed, also jumped up, and were astonished beyond measure to see George Edwards standing within a few feet of them.
For a few seconds they stood regarding him with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, while their faces grew whiter and their knees trembled beneath them.
The one who had last spoken was the first to recover his speech and power of action. Snatching up the hammerless gun that lay in the grass at his feet, he called out in savage tones:
“What are you doing here? Make yourself scarce at once, or I’ll—”
“What are you about, Benson?” cried one of his companions, seizing the double-barrel, and giving its owner a look that was full of significance. “Why, man alive, have you taken leave of your senses? Don’t you see who that is? It’s Edwards—George Edwards.”